


Under The Latin Sun

by MadeofLilies



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Love, Love at First Sight, Romance, Slow Romance, Summer Vacation, Vacation Fling, Vacation Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:05:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeofLilies/pseuds/MadeofLilies
Summary: Following Alfred’s unsolicited but rather wise advice, Bruce takes a much needed vacation in the heavenly land of the Cinque Terre but finds more beauty there than he had dared to imagine. Forty thousand minutes can only grant you so much happiness when reality lies just an ocean away.





	Under The Latin Sun

There's fog slowly dispersing all over the beautiful sky above him, and the oncoming sun has him finding shelter more quickly than he had hoped. Bruce has never been too fond of scorching sunlight - not ever since his 7th birthday that was spent running around every Hawaiian beach with his little hands still clasped inside his parents'. He'd spent so many hours exposed to the cruelty of the sun that week, his pale and unacquainted skin had suffered the most horrible of sunburns.

He still feels the blisters on his back, to this day.

In Gotham there's never so much sun. In fact, there's barely ever light there – especially at night when most of his ventures begin. This is quite the pleasant change, but still a bit unsettling. Bruce has never been a fan of change.

He makes an effort not to think too much these days, as much as his mind likes to irk him with pointless, tiring thoughts and what ifs for the future.

Not so surprising considering there's the weight of the world on his shoulders, although one would think he should be able to leave that behind when he's here.

He tries, he really does.

Starting with his ever-busy cellphone that now lies forgotten somewhere in the quarters of this very hotel room, buried in white sheets and thrown clothing bits. This is a beautiful dwelling, albeit a bit modest compared to all the luxuries he's seen in forty years of his life. It does offer one particular comfort he could never deny; the peace of having nowhere to be but here.

The sun is gentle enough that Bruce chooses to sit out in the balcony, beneath the shade of a fine cloth canopy. From his shelter he can safely watch the comings and goings of sailing boats across the bay. The shallow waters of this beach seem welcoming enough for all the lavish yachts wealthy foreigners such as him like to parade.

It's pure heaven to feel the warm caress of an afternoon breeze, sent in from the briny waves. The sea is shining, a most entrancing shade of opaque emerald under the weary sun that this marvel of a country is blessed with. The water is choppy in a lazy, content sort of way. There's not a single wave to bother this perfect peace and Bruce comes to wonder when it was exactly that he stopped appreciating things such as this.

There's a distant sound, maybe a gong of the harbor bell. To him it sounds more like a gun going off and marking the beginning of whatever this is. _Serenity...emancipation, perhaps._

He can do whatever he most desires now and yet all he's done since his arrival in Cinque Terre is settle on the comfort of the single recliner on the cozy balcony his room offers and indulge in a novel that Alfred himself had so wisely snack into his suitcase. _He hasn't done this in forever,_ he thinks.

Books have played a part in his life for as long as he can possibly recall but nowadays his reading habits seem to limit themselves to ungodly hours late at night -or early in the morning most times- where sleep refuses to find him still and he seeks comfort in his late father's office and the leather-bound tomes that rest upon the old oaken shelves of every bookcase.

They're mostly medical, incomprehensible long texts that he has memorized by now, as useless as they may be. It feeds the bits of his father inside him.

But now for the first time in forever, there's an actual reading book in his hands. A crime novel at that. However a peculiar choice it may sound for something to read on vacation, it's the only genre that will ever truly intrigue his mind and keep him interested enough to flip through those pages. As cliché as it sounds, he drinks those mysteries in.

The door is left open, welcoming in the sounds of the sea, and the comfort of the breeze… the scents of jasmine. There are several brightly colored cushions on the floor, candles that they shouldn't be expected to light until after dark, but Bruce lit them anyway. He's always loved candles a little too much since they drown the scent of blood and gruesome things he's seen and heard and done by the end of every night.

With a sigh and a flick of his wrist, he turns yet another page of his book before succumbing to boredom and closing it altogether. It’s nearing noon and other tourists should be returning to their rooms any time now. He can already hear the loud laughter of children and the yelling of local men in their mother tongue. Italians have a thing for being loud, as obnoxious as it is, but Bruce comes to appreciate their ways and undeniable hospitality. This rowdy people will forever hold a place inside his heart.

The book drops from his hand and lands on the stone flooring with a thud loud enough to scare off the magnificent doves that previously nestled amongst the lavish greenery behind the balcony’s railing. They fly right back to the beautiful blue of the clear sky where they belong and Bruce is left entirely alone with his thoughts and the shouts of a man going off in Italian.

_‘Sbrigatevi! Non abbiamo tutt’ il giorno.’_

His accent is thick, his words far more harshly gritted between his teeth than all the other natives he’s heard around here.

_‘Tutti minchioni.’_

The billionaire’s Italian is rusty – terribly so. The man’s accent doesn’t help much either and Bruce is left wondering whether he should really work on his vocabulary next. The knowledge in his head is but a fire put off and longing to be reignited.

 _‘Benvenuti! Cosa potrei fare per voi?’_ This voice strikes him.

It pierces right through his ears, but in a pleasant sort of way that almost drowns out the hum that’s been there for ages. Gunshots do that to you.

He’s suddenly all the more intrigued and his back slowly leaves the soft texture of the recliner and his aching feet drag him all the way across the balcony till he’s leaning on the exquisitely carved concrete railings.

His gaze first lands on the wide blue of the sea and then take their time to crawl up the bits of golden sand and beige-grey pebbles. Next thing they meet is the dyed cotton of all the towels sprawled out by tourists here and there and finally, they find you. Hidden beneath the bright teals and sunflower yellows of the grand umbrellas there, you stand in all your glory before the small café that’s housed two floors down his very room.

The distance is so small, he can practically smell your perfume from here. The scent almost drowns amongst all kinds of smells like slowly roasted meat that’s sold right above this street. In an enchanting symphony of lemon trees, rosemary and thyme that grow around him, there’s a faint hint of you – or what he assumes is you, for the floral tone of whatever perfume you’re wearing seems to blend indescribably well with the flattering pattern of your barely-there dress.

Your skin shimmers rather distractedly as it reflects the rays of sun, all the more illuminated by the plentiful of sunscreen that you’ve probably worn to shield yourself during these cruel hours. Your hair sits neatly braided but dry and Bruce can’t help but conclude you’ve only had a chance to dip your feet so far despite the almost nonexistent distance from the shore. The salty water clings there still.

He watches shamelessly, his eyes drink you in despite the fact that he feels like he’s practically ogling, which he is, to be honest. Albeit, there’s nothing to ignite the lust inside him. The expanse of your thighs is uncovered and shimmering alluringly with each sunbeam that hits it, but Bruce’s eyes pay no mind to that.

Nor do they notice the faint glisten of sweat in your cleavage, right below the dainty necklace that adorns the skin there. Instead they focus on the stars inside your eyes and the bits of pearl-like white that show with every movement of your soft, expressive lips.

You smile at the small child in front of you, the one clinging to the leg of his mother and his heart melts like butter, if he even has one. He’s met a hundred gorgeous women before yet he can’t recall a time when the smile of a woman is all he can possibly see. A pretty face, a nice body, a sultry look inside their eyes… _Never a smile as sweet and true as this one._

And then the customers around you are gone and as if you’ve felt him spying on you, your gaze rises to meet his just in time to catch him looking.

And he loses himself in there.


End file.
